Blood Music
by Cuna999
Summary: The curtain falls and blood pours from his fingers as blood pours from her throat. She forces his fingers to stain his keys red; he forces her throat to melodize strangled words into bloodstained music. They clean the blood off and the cycle repeats.


The piano has always been his most beloved instrument—his name is Soul Eater Evans and he's a world renowned musician and you have no choice but to know his name. Even if music is the furthest thing from your mind, you've heard his name or seen it at least once, whether it be in a crowd, at work, on a billboard, in the paper as he always is, same with the television.

His skill is beautiful and flawless, his eyes are red and demonic, his hair is the purest white like an angel's wings.

But he plays like no angel you have ever imagined. In fact, the music that pours forth from his fingers is pure and utter hell. It's the Devil's scream cursing you from the keys—it's music, but it's like no music one could ever stand.

That boy is a demon child.

/ /

Maka Albarn is a singer. She's been singing ever since she was a child, her voice is her most powerful tool. It is commanding, it is sweet, it is everything she needs. Her throat is her most precious tool that she needs to survive. God has given her a blessed gift—she is an angelic maiden so pure that when she sings you feel your own sins and you drown yourself in light that you cannot receive.

You have heard her name, you have seen her face. She is a beautiful creature but she is simply too beautiful to bear.

She's an angel that drives people to suicide because no matter how pure they are they can never match the utter purity and clarity of her voice—her voice cleanses everything away, and in the end it is too much.

She shouldn't be here.

/ /

Maka Albarn is always the accompaniment to Soul Eater Evans's pieces, and the way that his devilish piano mixes with her versatile voice is something that mesmerizes people for hours—the music they produce together is like an addictive drug. One you've gotten a taste of it you never forget it. You ask for encores, as well as the people around you. You beg, you plead, they indulge you once more until you tremble and collapse from the giddiness that you have truly experienced beauty in raw form.

He's a demon child, she's an angelic spawn, together they exist in a place between heaven and hell and have chosen to reside here on earth.

The stage is their world, they live together and it is understandable because who else could contain each other's otherworldly presence? Mere humans certainly could not, but gods surely needed to seek the comfort of each other so naturally they must find comfort in each other. That stage is all the fans ever see of their private lives and it is fine with them because it is not their place to see anything further beyond that. They know, and they are satisfied. They will respect their privacy because unlike all other human celebrities, those two are far, far beyond that.

The last round of applause slowly begins to ebb away as the audience slowly manages to peel themselves away from this bubble of beauty that is the concert hall. It takes a while, hours, even, for they always pull back to discuss with others, to call loving words out to the performers, to stop by and gaze at their beautiful appearances. Soul Eater Evans is handsome temptation in the rawest form, Maka Albarn is simply beauty at its purest. They are the manifestation of the seven deadly sins and the seven heavenly virtues.

It takes a painfully long time, but they stand there like dolls—Soul never smiles, his red eyes either glancing over the audience or staring intently at his music, and Maka lets a small smile of appreciation ghost her lips and she stares straight ahead, never looking directly at anyone—with the bright lights beating down on them, illuminating them, glorifying them, until slowly, the curtain begins to fall and they are out of sight.

/ /

Blood pours from his fingers as blood pours from her throat.

His fingers are purple and blue because he abuses them and never lets them rest simply because he can't afford to although he knows he has to maintain them because they are his life and if he loses them he is nothing. He is playing, writing, playing some more, the sound of his own piano haunts him and it sickens him and he hates it.

Her throat is parched and scratchy, after concerts she sounds like a monster because her voice beautifies only on stage because she had perfected it for this moment. Afterwards, she pays for it. When she sings he voice still sounds like some utter monstrosity and she cannot understand how in the world people enjoy her sound if the sound of her own voice makes her want to rip out her vocal cords and never speak again.

These two harbor talents that crush them under the pressure.

These two live in the same house but they are utter strangers unless they are on the stage. On stage, they are one and whole. Alone, they are two colors on the opposite ends of the spectrum.

No, they do not hate each other.

They simply have not given thought to the other until they realize that blood pours from the other's most precious instruments and they are both breaking to pieces. They learn to pick those pieces up and put them back together because they understand that this is what they are, this is what they will always be, this is what they have always been and they cannot let themselves swirl apart into oblivion so simply.

She forces his fingers to stain his keys red; he forces her throat to melodize strangled words into bloodstained music.

They clean the blood off later with perfect attention until their pieces are gleaming black and white and ready to perform on the stage that is their life.

When the curtain falls they bleed it out, return to the only solace they have, and repeat the cycle all over again.

/ /

It slowly comes together that, perhaps, they hold more than just a pianist and a singer.

Perhaps she decides that she likes the way he smiles, sharp teeth and all, or they way the light reflects off of his red eyes.

Perhaps he decides that while her figure isn't like a succubus she's frail and imperfect and strong, she's both everything and nothing and he needs her.

It all eventually falls into place, the shy glances, the offers eating dinner together, watching the stars at night together, simply sitting together.

They need each other, and unspokenly they know that they love each other. That small squeeze he gives her hand before the performances give her strength to stand. That smile she directs towards him and only him gives him motivation to continue living. The mutual feeling of companionship gives them both the will to go through the performance without that blood pouring through their fingers and throats on stage and ruining everything they've ever built for themselves.

It can't happen, they must hide their bruises in the dark and show the faces of perfection in that overbearing light.

_Just press the keys, just sing the notes, do it again, wait will the curtain falls and cry because it hurts too much, collapse into each other and just live within each other's arms because for now that is all that is giving you strength. _

/ /

They don't write songs for each other—that silent understanding is the best gift they can give each other because they are sick of noise that is their own music.

They sit together in a room that is nearly empty except for the loveseat, the gray loveseat in the middle of a white carpet room. Sometimes Soul will have his head in Maka's lap as he catches up on much needed sleep and this is the only way he can sleep calmly. He might drool into her lap and her legs eventually go numb but she doesn't mind, because she won't sing him a lullaby with her overused voice—it won't help him at all— and if this what she can do for him she will gladly do it. Other times it is she who rests her head in his lap, and his perfectly tailored dress pants are soaked with her tears and when she opens her eyes frantically he kisses her tears away and assures her that everything is fine, assures her that she is safe and still here until she finally falls into a dreamless sleep. His piano won't help her at all, and this is no sacrifice for him because he is an insomniac and he could never think of anything that he would rather do then to assure his love that he would always be there for her.

They need each other to sleep, they cannot exist without each other. They realize it may be a pathetic weakness, but they are not gods.

They are human.

Maka is an angelic singer but she thinks of herself as filthy and tainted and disgusting. She is selfish, she is petulant, she is prideful, she is lonely.

Soul is a demonic pianist and he would never be anything else. But in addition to that 'scary' label he is so much more; he is lazy, he is arrogant, he is broken and lonely, he is capable of love.

They have been together and will continue to be together—it is what the public sees and expects, but behind the curtain is so much more than their combined pieces of music.

They are too human to exist as gods for longer than a short moment.

The media respects their talent and keeps away from them, but should they ever accuse them of humanity it does not matter. Should their reputation fall and spiral apart it does not matter anymore because they have always been human, they have always been flawed and they have always been destroyed since the moment they stepped onto the stage and were proclaimed as being otherworldly and ephemeral.

They have learned to live, they have learned to love, Maka and Soul are more than just strangers inhabiting the same house now. They are more than just lovers; the word love and the feeling of love is not thrown around carelessly; each gaze, each word, each piece of affection is meaningful and beautiful.

These two are everything and nothing and they fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

They have always gone further than simplicity, even though simplicity is all they have wished. But behind the curtain, where the audience never sees, they achieve all they wish. When they retreat back into the sanctuary of their home, they have achieved silence and companionship, and it is all the world they need when they are not on the stage working together.

They don't need the music they have produced and lived on and honed all their lives when they are together—she doesn't need to sing him love songs, he doesn't need to compose them; it is unspoken love and adoration, because silence is the best gift they can receive as they crumple into each other and simply be.

The blood stops flowing, they crystallize and roll and form gems that contain a mutilated but glorious story that is strung into ruby red rings that sit delicately on their fingers when they are not in the presence of their audience; it is their stories that sit on their fingers and is something they shall choose to reveal to the people, should they choose to reveal it at all.

For now, those rings are symbolic of their secrets and their love and that will never change.

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**End Notes; **I'm not really sure where this came from; I literally sat here for about an hour or two and straight typed this out. Maybe not straight, but close to it. I tried going for imagery based; Maka and Soul are not literally bleeding onto their pianos and coughing up blood. x'D;; It's a bit random, though; sort of fractionalized, too. I dunno, it's weird. I tried describing their relationship is both everything and nothing—they need each other, but I don't want it to sound like they're pathetically reliant on each other, but they hate their own music (tried going for something different here, since they generally would love each other's music, like in my other fanfic _Take the Angel from the Hands of God_) and so they communicate through silence. (although it's not like they never talk to each other, even though I didn't actually put any dialogue in).

Like I said, it's weird. It's a bit complicated and confusing. The lines are often long and sort of run-on, I suppose, to try and achieve a sinuous, sort of flowing effect. I don't know if I did that or just made it seem like I don't know how to write a proper sentence, haha.

I was considering some more tragic points; for instance, Soul breaking his fingers and he can't play piano again, or Maka losing her voice and becoming mute. But I didn't really want it to be sad, plus I wasn't really in the mood to write something tragic. D: I think I originally came up with this from a line that was basically "he choked her, fingers curling around her throat as the words bubbled forth from her lips"; essentially someone, possibly Soul, choking Maka. But then I was like what the hell, where am I going with this and hell no do I want him to kill her or something. :S But I think it also was a little like _Take the Angel from the Hands of God_, only because Soul is a pianist and Maka sings, although she's a model in that fic.

The end does imply that they get married; it's a secret from the world, but it doesn't really matter since all they need is each other's acceptance and if the media finds out about their private lives (their 'imperfectness') ruins their 'otherworldly' image all they want since they're already ruined beings from the start.

Anyway, this is sort of spontaneous and experimental, nonetheless I hope you enjoyed it somewhat. Thank you very much! :3


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